


The Signed Prints of Vince Noir

by sallysorrell



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Magical Realism, Nonbinary Character, Other, Platonic Soulmates, Post canon, Queerplatonic Relationships, The Picture of Dorian Gray AU no one asked for, and whatever term you use for the boosh boys definitely applies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-17 01:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5847862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beautiful, innocent, and talented, Vince Noir is set on finally becoming a serious artist - the type to stay up late and fall in love without provocation.  The exact type of artist Howard Moon has been for years, as long as his muse is nearby.  But Naboo insists on splitting them up and keeping Vince safe, all to himself.<br/>The story of a portrait, a magic box, an anonymous musician, and the creamy novel which weaves them all together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Connection

The thought finally occurred to Howard - arriving symbolically with the cold gust of air from the open window - that he would have to face criticism.

All art did.

He was sometimes capable of convincing himself that his latest work was faultless - it was based on actual, perfect events from his own life, after all - but then he felt he was giving away too many personal details.  Even Vince would be able to figure out the substituted character names, if he bothered to read it.

Without Vince in the flat, and simultaneously playing around in the poetic pastures of Howard’s mind, he found he was able to quickly and accurately assemble his novel.  It was an exploration of their relationship, since a certain stunted birthday party, with narrative assistance from Howard’s heart, which found its way to the brain controls too frequently, these days.  

Howard tried to speak, to summarise the moment and emotion before it escaped him, but found typing to be easier.  He was working through a lengthy description of that night, after they’d kissed, when Vince found him sulking in the bedroom and insisted on holding his hand.  He had to find a way to make this all sound acceptable; it had worked out well in the end, even if he felt sick with embarrassment and confusion at the time.

“It’s nice,” Howard finally said, “to have Vince away for a bit.”

Naboo glanced up from his pipe, relieved that Howard managed to finish the thought.  His voice still lacked the necessary conviction, but at least he stuffed some words together.

“Get some work done, eh?” he continued, quietly.  Because Naboo was glaring and twisting his fingers torturously over the gem-studded tubing.

“Wha’d’you want?”

Howard rested his fingers over the centre line of keys.  His thinking pose.

“Sorry,” he said, “just thought it’d be nice to have some intelligent conversation for once.”

He wished he had a pipe to play with, although not the kind Naboo offered him.  Instead, he set one hand against his chin to graze the stubble.

“I thought you liked Vince,” Naboo countered.  He made a show of using his pipe, now, knowing Howard was running out of things to do.  

“I w--”

“Like, _really_ liked him,” Naboo continued.

"I do,” Howard said.  He rushed to add “not like that,” to shut Naboo up, even though this was now officially untrue.

He typed another line.  His best yet.  An ideal topic for intelligent and out-of-practice conversationalists to spar with.  He stretched.

“But he can’t think for himself… just does whatever everyone else is doing, gets us all into trouble, and then laughs about it.  Almost like he - like he _likes_ \- hurting me?  It’s easier to write when he’s not here, in any case.”

“You writin’ about him, then?”

“ _What_?”

He was.  About the way their fingers fit together, and the spoonful of syrup Vince stirred into his voice when he asked if Howard ‘needed’ their beds pushed together for the night.  At the memory, Howard found himself saying, ‘yeah.’

Naboo muttered something about Bollo owing him a tenner, while Howard tried and failed to recapture his creative ‘flow.’  That’s what Vince used to call it, every time he interrupted it.

As he did, again.  Every time, Howard reminded himself that this was something he should expect, followed by the inexplicable and cascading hope that _next time_ would be different.

“All right, Naboo,” Vince’s voice crept in from the staircase, preceded by the sound of his heeled boots meeting the wood.  “Hey, Howard.”

“Yeah,” Howard sighed back.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Howard replied, “I’m trying to write.”

Writing, luckily, was the least flimsy of Howard’s fleeting passions, and, even more luckily, was one he was good at.  By now, after a few years of it, Vince knew that Howard lost more of his communication skills during his writing process, trading them for prose and selling them immediately to anything that could pass as poetry.  Vince did not expect much of a conversation.

“I got new canvases,” he said, parting with the sequined shopping bag he wore over his shoulder.

Vince’s painting process was very much the opposite of Howard’s writing one.  He would talk endlessly about his inspiration, give constant instructions to whoever volunteered to pose for him, and would generally talk until Howard was exhausted just from listening.

Howard rarely disputed the amount of talent involved in producing a meaningful painting, but he certainly regarded it as easier than writing.  It was capturing a butterfly in one’s hands, preserving a moment.  Writing was trying to persuade a tiger to slip itself into a collar, and to walk willingly on a lead, for the rest of its life.  Something like that, and he scribbled it down in his cream-coloured notebook.

“I’m gonna have another go at you,” Vince removed one of the canvases from his bag, and set it out on the table. “You can stay and write and everything… I’ll get the typewriter in, too.  It’ll be well vintage.  Might even do it in black and white…”

Naboo exhaled a cloud of the steamy smoke, for the sole purpose of peering through it.

“So you’re finally gonna be a serious artist, are you?”

Usually, Naboo’s lopsided attempts at compliments were directed at Howard.  He was trying to adapt his new note about authors and tigers into a defense when he realised it was _Vince_ Naboo was attacking.  Vince knew already, and deciphered Naboo’s tone better than Howard could.

“Yeah, I won’t be needing any’a your magic on this one.”

“Whatever,” Naboo’s voice was thin, scraped down by the smoke, “BTEC Nationals don’t pay bills.”

“Yeah,” Vince repeated, “whatever.”  He propped the canvas up on the table, and dug a packet of pencils and fine brushes from the box by the stairwell.  He was genuinely trying to be quiet and unintrusive, so Howard could continue his work.  But this was all instantly undone by Naboo, who enjoyed standing and tossing down the pipe before announcing he was going to the shop, if anyone needed owl beaks.  It was his favourite joke, because he had to force the other two to understand it.  He liked seeing them uncomfortable, for a change.  Or at least one of them.

Howard rolled his eyes.  ‘Uncomfortable’ was one of the few emotions he was able to both display and internalise, for what would, in any other case, be an impressively long amount of time.  

Naboo promised he would ‘just get a couple’ as he moved down the stairs, completely satisfied with himself.

“Can’t you paint someone else?” Howard tried to sound helpful, but tripped and fell into impatient on the way, “Might be giving Naboo the wrong idea, there.”

“You think _I’m_ givin' him the wrong idea?” Vince countered, “Isn’t your novel about _me_?”

Howard was fairly certain Vince hadn’t committed to reading it (“I can’t read more than a line of yours at a time, it gives me a headache”) and wondered if his face had finally done something distinctive and given him away.  Vince’s thoughts, as usual, were skipping along the same line, eager to disprove him.

“You’re good practice,” he said, “With your face, I can fill up a whole gallery and say it’s anyone.”

“Yeah, and you’re filling up loads of galleries, aren’t you?”

“I’ve still published more books than you ‘ave.”

Howard squinted at him.

“That’s… not what this is about.”

Vince’s automatic response was to widen his eyes and smirk.

“I think it is.”

Howard tugged the half-finished paper out of the typewriter bay, and set it over the keys instead.  Part of him wanted to crumple it up, another part wanted to rip it into thousands of pieces, and the final part made a convincing case for reading it aloud immediately.   _Not entirely sure where that last one came from_ , he thought, shaking his head.

“I didn’t mean you should stop,” Vince’s voice was softer now, and he took the seat beside Howard at the table.  “Read me a line of it, go on.”

“Just one line?”

“Yeah, any one you want.  Hit me.”

It was, as the stack of finished pages and dog-eared notebooks suggested, impossible for Howard to limit his feelings for Vince to one sentence.  He tried, several times before, but every hopeful typeset line quickly turned into one of disappointment and tipp-ex.

“I’d, er… I’d have to think about that.”

Defeatedly, Vince tossed his hands.  He was always trying to get Howard to ‘live’, as they both reluctantly put it, and do things without thinking about everything that could go wrong, first.  By the time Howard compiled a list of possible negative outcomes, he was paralysed - too worried about any of them happening to go through with it.

“Whatever,” Vince shrugged, “I’m gonna go with Naboo, anyway.”

“You just got back from the shops.”

“Yeah,” Vince said, tilting his head toward the coat-hooks, “I’m goin’ again.”

* * *

Vince was thankful that Naboo was only capable of such comparatively short strides.  He had no trouble catching him, about halfway to his destination.

“Thought so,” Naboo said, before Vince even entered his line of vision.  Vince muttered ‘what?’ and ‘christ!’ to himself, before Naboo shrugged and greeted him more conventionally.

Vince dropped his hand after waving, feeling ridiculous.

“What’d you mean, ‘thought so’?”

“Thought Howard would bore you to tears, too.”

Vince blinked at him, unsure.  Naboo adjusted his turban.

“Oh,” he said slowly, tapping the side of his nose. “Lovers’ tiff.”

“I don’t think so.”

Naboo slid his hands into the robe’s deep pockets.  

“Couple years late, if I’m honest.  You gotta fight back. Can't just let him suck the life out of you like he does.”

“Are y--?”

“I thought he was a demon the first time you introduced us.  Kept trying to find him in m’ book.  And I _know_ Bollo’s ripped a few pages out.  He’s gotta be in those,” he gave a decisive nod. “I can feel it.”

“Are you trying to tell me Howard’s a--?”

“I am, flat out,” Naboo said. “Suckin’ the life outta you.”

He lifted a fistful of reddish dust from one pocket, and threw it on the path in front of them.  It only succeeded in staining some fallen leaves and thickening a puddle of standing rainwater.  He swore to himself and tried the slightly darker red dust, from the other pocket.

Then he vanished.

Vince sighed, and knew better than to call after him.  He would finish his walk into town alone with his thoughts.  And they were being cooperative.  Usually, when he managed to get time alone to think, all his mind could come up with were dogs in neon chelsea boots, or flowers growing upside-down from conservatory ceilings.  This time, he was met with the painfully clear image of Howard, wielding an industrial hoover, knocking at the front door in his brain, and his secretary could think of nothing to say.  She looked older than Vince thought she should, anyway, with an extra layer of concealer too obviously framing her eyes.  Was that Howard’s fault?  Vince wished he would go away.

 


	2. Don't Touch Anything

Vince found himself to be incapable of multitasking.  While his brain worked on limiting Howard’s time inside, his secretary clicked him onto the most common course he took through the supermarket.  She leaned back in her seat, rolled her eyes, and encouraged Vince to put together exact change from within his wallet so they could return home as quickly as possible.  “Not now, Howard,” she kept saying, even when he volunteered to help count coins.  

Howard’s voice succeeded in snapping him out of his autopilot adventure, after he returned to the flat and set the netted carton of satsumas vaguely near the middle of the kitchen table.  Vince noticed he was still behind the typewriter, with the piles of paper on either side of him now noticeably taller. 

“Vince?” Howard had to say it several times, before catching his eyes, “You alright?”

“Alright,” Vince blinked and nodded and sat down.  He felt uncomfortably insignificant in that moment, as if he’d managed to lose weight during the course of his walk.  He shifted in his chair, crossing his legs three different ways before giving up and standing.  Still, he could feel Howard’s eyes darting over him, stripping more of him away.  

“Are you…?” Vince began, forcing his secretary to take a break and promising to rely on Naboo’s input for a moment instead, “Are you writing about me still?”

As easily as one could mistake Vince for being unique and unapologetically individual, Howard knew the opposite was true.  Vince would step into things with expectations instead of preparations.  Or something like that.  He would have to find an early page of his notes, from when he and Vince first started properly working together, back at the zoo.  

“Yeah,” Howard said slowly, “You  _ sure  _ you’re okay?”

What he heard, instead, was Naboo insisting some shifty life-draining activity was going on; Howard’s guilty, ineffectual eyes did not help the situation. 

Vince slid the stack of books, made alternately up of Howard’s own notes, dictionaries for reference, and novels he pretended to enjoy, toward his workspace.  He set the little box of fruit on top, making it the perfect height to lean his canvas against.  The pens and fine-point brushes were still there, but he felt fully inspired now.  He dashed off to their bedroom, digging his favourite hand mirror out of his vanity, and a collection of folded paint tubes and frayed brushes from a box beneath his bed.  All of this, he threw dramatically across the table.  Howard had not typed a thing since Vince arrived, and would not be able to start soon, by the look of things.

With an unnecessarily dramatic  _ puff  _ of light and sound, Naboo appeared at the top of the stairwell.  

“Beauty’s genius,” he said, while Vince stuffed the handle of his mirror into the back of the carton, “Stay young.”

He patted Vince’s shoulder, but Vince did not turn to acknowledge him.  Naboo and Howard stared at each other for a moment, until Naboo squirmed and retired to his room. 

Vince, though, did not move his focus from his own reflection.  Howard wanted to make a comment about the ridiculousness of it all - the vanity, the drama - but he remained silent.  Vince hardly even looked at the canvas while he sketched.  He squeezed some paint out of every bottle onto the plate he had forgotten to clear from breakfast that morning.  Crumbs of pancake clung to the tone he used for highlights in his skin, while sugar thickened the deepest of his hair colours.  He did not seem to notice, even as he dappled these expertly over the canvas.  His face, he swore, winked back at him.  Howard stood.

“I don’t want you looking at it,” Vince said, pencil hanging from his lips.  This was a habit he picked up from Howard when trying to focus; he removed it immediately to solidify his argument.  Howard took a slow step back and pushed in his chair.

“I don’t get caught in your reflection, sir,” Howard said, “Not like you do.”

Vince huffed.  This was easily his best work, and he wouldn’t have Howard draining it, censoring it, or otherwise.

“ _ Shh _ !”

Howard replied with his ‘modest and shocked’ face, which usually met Vince when he swore, muttering about how he was ruining his innocent image with that kind of talk. 

“You’re not lookin’ at it,” Vince continued, “It’s not even done.”

“Yeah, neither’s my novel.”

“I don’t ask to see your novel though, do I?”

Howard ducked his head, trying to catch the best proportion of light from the window behind him.  He would be content with seeing through the canvas, and accepting the image backward.  Vince had a habit of outlining his works thickly with black.  Howard once mentioned that this seemed like a jazzy thing to do, while Vince maintained it was retro.  He said he had to have something unique to his art style, which Howard would never understand properly. 

“You  _ did _ ,” Howard said, “You were asking to see it ‘bout an hour ago.  What’s gotten into you?”

“You have,” Vince used the smug monotone that always dominated his work sessions, “You’re in my mind with a hoover.”

“What?”

“Sucking out all the good bits.  All the colours, ‘til the walls and floor and ceiling and  _ everything _ ’s creamy beige.  Gettin’ it all on my clothes as well.”

“What are y--?”

“ _ I’m painting _ .”

“Something’s off, Vince.  You’ve--”

“Shh,” Vince said again, “Can’t you leave me alone?”

Howard guessed that, yes, he could manage that.  They weren’t physically conjoined, after all, and he could easily go into their -  _ his _ , for now - bedroom, and shut the door.  He could even lock it, if he wanted to.  Yes sir, he could leave Vince alone. 

“Fine,” Howard said, hoping he sounded edgy and angry.  He thought about slamming the door, but knew the turning of the rarely-used lock would be loud enough to make his point.  Vince just shrugged, said ‘unbelievable’ to himself, and returned enthusiastically to his work. 

* * *

The house was silent well into the next night, with staccato music only occasionally bleeding out of Howard’s headphones.  Vince did not move from his post, either sitting or kneeling on the chair to see himself from whatever angle was necessary.  Naboo was more than happy to have the chance to stay in his room and sleep.  It was Sunday; the shop was closed.

On Monday morning, just past three, the lock of the bedroom door clicked backward.  Howard crept out, all wrinkled dressing gown and thoroughly matted hair, apart from the spots where the headphones spent hours flattening it.  He and Vince were both prone to forgetting to eat, especially when focused on something creative.  They could still be arguing or apart or whatever they were while Howard made them tea and toast.  Cut with zigzags down the middle, and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, as Vince liked it.  They could still be arguing, maybe, if he made the cuts slightly softer, rounder.  Or put too much cinnamon.  Maybe nutmeg instead.  He had time to think of something, while the water warmed. 

Vince only turned when he heard the kettle ignite.  Howard was there, staring more intently at it than necessary, trying to prove he was altogether uninterested in whatever Vince was wasting his time with. 

“Still don’t look at it,” was all Vince said, “It’s drying, now.” 

“Oh,” Howard only succeeded in sounding bored because this was his default tone, “Finished with it, are ya?”

“Yeah, ‘course I am.”

Howard wanted to ask why - if at all - Vince was upset with him.  But perhaps this was just his creative process.  Howard had one, too, and was willing to understand a new collection of quirks if it was necessary for production.  His question was hesitant and - he hoped - subtle. 

“Do you, um, need any more time to yourself?”

The kettle switched off, and Howard set to pouring the water into their respective cups while it was still boiling.  He didn’t think it was fair to say that he’d enjoyed  _ his _ time to himself, which was occupied mostly by trying to settle on  _ their  _ new musical direction, sorting through  _ Vince’s _ wardrobe, and generally thinking too much about the moment  _ they _ would be back together.  Vince felt more neutral, pleased with his work, but desperately hungry and stuck in his seat under the watchful eyes of his portrait.

“Yeah,” Vince said flatly, “This is the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Howard’s heart was as melodramatic as the rest of him, faltering for a moment and wondering if it was worth it to continue on to the next beat.  Waiting to make a decision, until...

“Naboo’s gonna love it,” Vince continued. 

Howard bit back more words than he’d ever managed to think of at once.  Some were sad, some desperate, some apologetic.  Some were angry, as if Vince had been directly criticising him.  He shoved Vince’s cup across the counter and shuffled back to the bedroom, twisting one hand over his forearm as he went.  

Vince stared forward, settled perfectly between sleepy and satisfied, and reached for his teacup without thinking.

He took it with him, as he left to knock at Naboo’s door.

* * *

Howard stood, legs back against Vince’s bed, glaring at a suitcase.  He dug out the biggest one he owned - tweed and worn corners and probably older than he was - and propped it open on his bed.  His headphones and a vest were the only things in it so far, but he had to start somewhere.  What else would he need, to trudge through time without Vince there to distract him?  Novels, probably.  His notebooks.

These were still waiting on the table in the kitchen.  He had not heard anything from that direction in nearly an hour, other than the muffled closing of Naboo’s door.  He assumed Vince had given up, made himself look desperate, and curled up on the chaise in Naboo’s room.   _ Fine _ , Howard made himself needlessly jealous,  _ see if he can replace me, won’t we? _

He returned quietly to the kitchen, where he heard excited whispers creeping in from Naboo’s room.  Might as well get a look at the painting, if Vince was engaged with his new… whatever Howard had been to him.  Vince put no time into choosing a term for their relationship.  The thought never occurred to him. 

Howard shook his head, admittedly amazed at what he saw on the canvas.  Vince had spent enough time studying his reflection to recreate it, of course, but this bordered surprisingly on realism.  Except, if Howard was being critical, the lines around his eyes were too dark and too thick.  Howard hadn’t seen him wear that much eyeliner since college.  

It would have to come off. 

Suddenly, as he reached for the paint-covered plate, he understood how Vince must’ve felt some nights, staring back and forth between a sleeping Howard and a shining pair of scissors.  Well, this would make them ‘even’ then, wouldn’t it?  Howard took up the nearest brush, dipped it in what looked like the whites of Vince’s eyes, and took care of it.  This was the best thing Vince had ever done, and now it was objectively better. 

He crossed the brush careully over the plate, then exchanged this for his stacks of paper.  He did not hear the door opening, over the crinkling of the pages as he gathered them against his chest.  Vince stood behind him, and jabbed two fingers into his back, to stop him stumbling any further.

“What you doin’?”

Howard swallowed uncomfortably. 

“I wanted to keep these with me,” he lifted his arms, to indicate the papers.  One fell; Vince watched it without moving to retrieve it.  Howard turned to face him, guessing his shoulders would still be covering the painting sufficiently. 

They did not.  Vince threw one hand over Howard’s shoulder, digging in with his thumb. 

“What’ve you done  _ that  _ for?  Naboo’s not even  _ seen  _ it yet… he was gonna get prints of it done for the shop and everythin’, and you just--!” 

Naboo arrived, assuming Vince was calling for him and guessing he was distressed.  

“What’s going on in here?” he demanded. 

Vince stepped aside, to properly indicate that this was, in fact, Howard’s fault.  But Naboo saw the painting, and immediately praised it with more enthusiasm than anyone guessed he was capable of showing. 

“You’re right,” he said, directly at Vince, “That  _ is  _ the best thing you’ve ever done.”

Howard’s eyes flickered at Vince, then the canvas, then back at Vince, brows raised and expecting an apology.  Vince leaned his head in near Howard’s shoulder.  Close enough. 

“Cheers, Naboo.”

“Oughtta be dry now, yeah?  I’m gonna get started on copies.”

Vince gave him a charming smile and enthusiastic nod.  Howard rolled his eyes, because Vince had - yet again - lied about something without planning for repercussions.  

And he hadn’t given Howard any credit either.  Which made shutting his suitcase much,  _ much  _ easier. 

“See you later, then,” Howard said, already down the stairs.  Vince rushed after him, complaining that he had to stop silently creeping around like that.  

“It’s four in the morning,” Vince replied.  Howard didn’t think this showed an appropriate interest in where he was going, or what he was doing.  He convinced himself to slam the door, nearly.  The bells above it clanged as he went. 

By the time Vince caught sight of the suitcase, over-polished corners catching tinny moonlight, Howard was too far down the street.   
  



	3. The Not-Bad Day

Whenever he was with Naboo, Vince realised he was overseeing two separate conversations.  But he and Howard had been like that, a long time ago, and they’d gotten better.  He wondered how long he would have to wait for Howard to come back, this time, and rescue him from it.  Or if he could get into some sort of groove with Naboo instead.  Whichever came first was fine.

“It’s still wet, you muppet!” Naboo waved his hands over the canvas.  He had already assembled a stack of blank posters , to press copies into.  Magically, of course.  

He made a fist, which sucked the image into his hand, and then threw it dramatically over the waiting blanks.

“Howard’s gone!”

Naboo made two more copies before even turning to look at Vince.

“Give it a week.”

“What’m I s’posed to do?”

“Chuck us a Sharpie, yeah?”

“Naboo-!”

The shaman summoned the marker himself, forced it into Vince’s hand, and pushed him down into the chair.  The prints were lined up across the countertop.

“I want these numbered and signed.  See how many we sell in a day.”

“D’you reckon he’ll come back?”

“Probably a hundred, yeah?  I’ll do a hundred, for now.”

Giving up, Vince shook his head and popped the cap off of the marker.  He made curly numbers on the back of each picture, wondering which would match up with Howard’s return.

* * *

Howard managed to ignore most of Lester Corncrake’s overbearing hospitality and accompanying laughter.  Other than Lester’s insistence he was always happy to help a fellow Veteran (“how old do you think I am?”) and his promise that he would not take any rent for the first few weeks.  

“I've brought money with me, it’s not a--”

“I don’t need money from you, Howard.”

“Well, thanks very much.”

“I need something else.”

 _Here we go_ , Howard thought.  He hadn’t even seen his room yet, as Lester was still fumbling through an absurdly crowded ring of keys.  One, he noticed, was a key for guitar tuning.  But there was also a bottle opener and a safety pin fastened to the thing, so he refused to get too hopeful.

A worthwhile pursuit; the room turned out to be much smaller than promised, and had what seemed to be a stack of towels instead of a mattress, slinking through a pointy metal bed-frame.

He hoped that nearly two days without sleep would help him overlook this, at least for one night.  Seemed like a balanced equation.

“What was it you wanted, Lester?”

It wasn’t worth pointing out the lack of mattress, even as he set down his bag and watched the towels slip down lower in the centre.

“You ever heard of _New Faces of Pop_?”

* * *

Vince thought he must’ve had a good day.  Maybe a great one, like Naboo told him as they sat idly in front of the television, Vince nibbling on chocolates while Naboo settled the sales figures for the day.  Or watched them settle themselves, over enchanted paper.  Vince crinkled up his collection of wrappers, cramming ten into his hand at once.

Without Howard there, requiring reassurance that every day wasn’t a complete disaster, Vince had a hard time believing it himself.  Naboo agreed with him too easily.

“Thirty-two prints in an hour,” Naboo read, “And _Cheekbone_ want to do a section on your creative process.”

Vince nodded, expecting to hear why this was actually terrible news.  Nothing.

He rushed upstairs to call Howard, who answered his mobile in record-breaking time.

“Hey, Howard.  I just needed to--”

“Can’t remember how to get the oven on, hmm?  Need me to shut the curtains in the bedroom?  Wanted to--”

“Just needed to talk to you ‘s all.  What’s wrong with you?”

“Oh,” Howard wasn’t yet sure if he was meant to be pleased or disappointed, “What is it?”

“Naboo’s got me like his slave or something.  I had to open _and_ close today, all by m’self.  He was just sat upstairs, making more copies.”

“Don’t let the fame go to your head, yeah?”

This was exactly the reason Vince called.  Howard was the only person he knew who could stretch servitude logically into glamour.

“Yeah,” he replied, “When you gettin’ back?”

“Not for a while,” Howard said, “Got a new job, now.  New mates.  I’ve found somewhere where I’m needed.”

 _Who needs you more than_ **_I_ ** _do?_ Vince thought.  He did not state it, though; he had an image to maintain.  Even if it was transparent to Howard.

“I was thinking of going out tonight,” he said instead, “You wanna meet me somewhere?”

He was used to Howard shaking his head ‘no’ and assumed that’s what he was hearing.  It must’ve been his hair, rustling across the speaker.  

“I can’t,” he added, “I’ve got, er, Jazz Club.”

“Ugh, you’re starting _that_ rubbish up again?”

“Are you sure you didn’t call just to insult me?”

“I don’t know,” Vince felt as if he’d been deflated, “I’ll see you later.”

Vince left the house, wandering habitually toward The Velvet Onion, only stopping at the sight of a particularly pathetic-looking beggar.

The man was hunched over a cane, occasionally lifting his gaze from behind his tattered sleeve to reveal a waxy green face.  Vince only realised - as he fumbled at his side for a purse or wallet or whatever he felt like that day - that he hadn’t grabbed any money on his way out of the flat.  

“Evening,” the stranger said, two fingers brushing the brim of his hat.  He couldn’t commit to tipping it, “Here to see the show, young lady?”

Vince kept walking, hands stuffed in his coat pockets.

“You shouldn’t be out alone, lovely face like yours.  What’s your name?”

“It’s Vince,” he replied firmly.  Sometimes, this was enough.  

The stranger leaned back against his cane.

“You a geezer?”

He caught Vince’s sleeve.  Everyone working the current shift in Vince’s brain shouted for Howard to do something.  “He’s not _here_ , you idiots,” the secretary whined.  She was usually on the phone with Howard’s brain secretary, directly, and was the first to realise that Howard was out of their range for longer than usual.  She fed Vince a thought from their last conversation: ‘two can play at this game.’  

He slipped his voice just slightly south, toward the accent his attacker used.

“If it means you’ll leave me alone, I am.”

“Sorry, Squire.  I was looking for a lady who might like to spend the evenin’ in m’ _box_ seats.”

Vince hoped it was a box the man was stooping to show him.

“Get off me, you’re weird.   _Howard_!”

But it was Bob Fossil, of all people, who heard this and came to his rescue.  He wore a tie over his blue work-suit, and had a cup in one pocket and a thick book of tickets in the other.  With passing disappointment, he asked “where is that loser?   _Moon!_?” then immediately brightened upon noticing Vince was unaccompanied.

“Vincey, hey!”

The stranger retreated; he had no patience for Americans, least of all _that_ one.  He felt like he had tried breathing under water, just looking at him.

“I’m a scalper,” Fossil said, rather than reacting to the stranger, “D’you wanna see the show tonight?”

“What, at The Velvet Onion?” Vince tried to read the tickets before Fossil snatched them up and made a fan out of them.  Vince complained, for the sake of his hair.

“Sorry,” Fossil said.  Then, “Yeah.  They’re _real_ good seats.”

Part of him waited for Howard to point out that Fossil owned The Velvet Onion, and had no business scalping any tickets, especially not his own.  But the rest of him was bored, skint, and enamored with favours.

“What’s the gig?”

“ _New Faces of Pop_.  And bodies and clothes, too.  I’ve gotta fill the front row with beautiful people for some magazines,” he leaned in closer than Vince liked, framing his face with both hands, “What do you say, huh?  I can get you popcorn.”

“Okay,” Vince said, “Just keep me away from that weirdo.”

He tossed his head back, in the direction the stranger disappeared to.  Fossil said he saw nothing.

* * *

Vince decided, fairly quickly, that he had not missed much in the world of pop.  Maybe it had missed him, though.  Six acts stumbled through the curtains, all feeling deplorably beige.

He was happy with his seat, however.  Front row, as Fossil promised, but near the aisle.  He found himself facing the accompanist, buried behind the lid of a grand piano, and caged between electronic keyboards on either side.  Each keyboard had a sign draped over the front; one read ‘New Faces of Pop’ and the other read ‘Vane.’  

 _Vane_ , Vince thought.  That was all.

By the eighth act, he found he was able to ignore the aggressively loud chewing of Fossil from the seat beside him if he set his mind on Vane instead.

Vane was, so far, faceless, constantly flipping pages of music.  Vane wore black, and a jacket without a tie.  Vince only caught momentary glimpses of Vane’s hair, which he decided was meticulously curled and then foolishly shoved beneath a beret.  It was as if Vane tried to look picturesque, but only barely passed patchwork.

 _“Howard would like them,”_ his secretary sighed.  

Vince widened his eyes.  Naboo advised him to stay young, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had been on this side of the classic ‘falling in love with a stranger’ situation.  He felt a deep sense of satisfaction and clear personal growth; last time he had been out on his own without a wallet, he was happy to reverse the situation and accept free drinks from doe-eyed strangers.  

Not this time.  

He would try to like them, instead.


	4. Some of the Problems Associated with Being A Muse

Completely indifferent, Howard stood in the wing after the show, scribbling over a clipboard of sheet music.  Lester was beside him, trying to take the pencil away from him with a pair of chopsticks.

“You said you were good,” Lester bobbed his head, “But that’s a hell of a trick you got there.”  

Howard wanted to break the chopsticks and throw them on the floor, but, as usual, found himself painfully patient with people who seemed to need him.

“I wouldn’t call it a trick,” Howard maintained, “You don’t see me mocking your talents, do you?”

Lester laughed at his choice of words, and said he saw nothing.

“But when one sense diminishes,” he continued, “the others improve.  So I can hear well enough to know when a musical trick like that comes along.”

_Worse than arguing with Vince, this is._ It was as if he had been forced into a circle, instead of the corner he was accustomed to.

“It’s a double act and twenty years’ practice, thank you very much,” he said, struggling with ‘Northern Sentiment’ and sounding more like ‘Inconvenienced Barman’ instead.

“Whatever you call it,” Lester shrugged. “You keep doing that, you won’t owe me a penny.  Stay as long as you like." 

“I didn’t--” _no point in arguing_ , “alright, sounds fine.”

* * *

Vince watched as Naboo rolled up Print #50 and slipped it into a shopping bag.  The customer gave him a smile and a fistful of euros before retreating, ringing the bells above the door for a moment.  Vince immediately hated the silence; he slinked into the red salon chair and crossed his legs.

“D’you wanna come out to The Velvet Onion tonight?”

Naboo peered at him through half-shut eyes.

“I want to do late opens, now.”

“Oh…”

“Had a lot of requests for it.”

Compulsively, Vince ran one hand through his hair.  He could make a night of washing it, he guessed, if nothing else came up.  

“They’re doing the second round of _New Faces of Pop_.  Eliminations ‘n’ all.”

“When’s that getting a companion piece, then?” Naboo indicated the painting.

Vince did his best to avoid looking at it over the past week.  It made him think more of Howard than of himself.  And, specifically, of them sitting on his bed together, contents of Vince’s finest makeup case spread between them.  Howard’s breath was warm against Vince’s face, as they told each other, _again_ and simultaneously, to ‘hold still.’  Howard dabbed the brush in glittery white powder.

He had no explanation for the thought; it just was.  The secretary had fantasised about it once, while listening to Howard’s internal answerphone, leaning the phone against her shoulder so she could refresh her eyeliner.  

“I’ve gotta talk to Howard,” Vince said.  Naboo’s face scrunched together, shared by disbelief and disgust.

“Didn’t you hear what I said about ‘im?”

Vince gave a melancholy nod and stayed quiet, resting his head in one hand.

“Suckin’ the life out of you, yeah?”

“I haven’t got anything inside for him to take.”

Naboo was convinced that ‘comforting’ was not part of their arrangement.  He retired from that long ago, shredding all his baby animal pictures as he went.

“What, like he’s got anything to give you?” he said, flatly.

Vince had managed to put together three meals that day - sure, two of them were banana Angel Delight, but that _must_ count as healthy - and found he could open the windows in the bedroom if he shoved Howard’s bed against the wall and stood on it.  He didn’t like to call that ‘living’ though.  It had been less than a week and he was bored of it.

“If I’d known it was just singers this year,” Vince continued, unconcerned with whether or not Naboo was listening, “I would’ve had a go.  It’s not whole bands anymore, just singers and a musician.  Well nice.” 

“If you’re gonna get in late,” Naboo said, “don’t be too loud.”

* * *

With his most encouraging internal voice, Howard convinced himself not to answer his mobile on the first ring.  He managed to wait until the gap between the second and third.

“I’m so _bored_ ,” Vince said, in lieu of a greeting, “You’ve gotta come out with me tonight.”

During the pause, Howard weighed the outcomes of their extended argument.  He couldn’t remember what it was they were fighting over.  Wasn’t it about Vince needing time alone?  What was he doing, then, arranging for them to meet?

“I’m busy.”

“As if _you’re_ busy!” snapped Vince, “It’s just a couple of hours, come on.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“I’m not trying to drag you all the way back to our bedroom,” Vince whined, “but you’ve never been away this long.  What am I supposed to do?”

“Always about you, isn’t it?  You’re so vain.” 

As Howard led into his version of the Myth of Narcissus - featuring rivers made from glitter so that Vince would pay attention - Vince set down his phone and left the house.

* * *

“Oi, you again?”

Vince caught sight of the green stranger, guarding the theatre door.  Tonight, he held his hat out in both hands.  The closest he would ever get to appearing apologetic, much less expressing it verbally.  

“You stay away from me,” Vince urged.

“You’re with the papers, aren’t ya?”

Vince did not stop to speak with him until he was sure he could reach the theatre door, and was drenched in neon light from the sign above them.

“What was that?”

“You’re a critic, aren’t you?  Writing reviews in the newspapers, saying it’s shit.”

“I don’t even _read_ newspapers, mate,” Vince hoped this would be interpreted as masculine and not familiar.  To clarify, he added, “Could y’ back off?”

The stranger replaced his hat and slouched against the wall, shoulder brushing the doorknob.  His scent was of dust and peppermint.  Vince coughed and looked pointedly at the door.

“I know a thing or two about the theatre, young lady, let me tell you.”

“Please don’t.”

“It’s a young man’s game, acting.  One foot in one world, the other in another one, keepin’ the audience ‘tween your pins.”

“Can y--”

“ _Ohhhhh_ ,” he wailed, “always at risk’a fallin’ in.  Waiting for all of ‘em to laugh and cry and squeal back at you, pouring your life out into their faces.”

Vince explained that he was late for the show already, and _really_ didn’t have time to get tangled up in a Cockney yarn.  With some warmth, he reminded himself that Howard felt the opposite, and requested repetitions of his favourites.  Only from him, too; he wouldn’t be listening to this one, either, if he were here.

“But a radiant young face like yours,” the stranger continued, in a vibrato that suggested he heard Vince and chose not to be concerned, “I could do great things with a face like that.”

Vince lunged for the door, yanking it open and disappearing inside before the stranger could stop him.  He dabbed his fingers over his face, to guess whether it was still there and looking decent, while Fossil met him and shoved a printed programme into his hand.

“Saved you a seat, my little prince.”

Vince rolled his eyes but did not refuse it.  He guessed he could only be selective with nicknames and compliments if Howard was giving them.  No one else noticed him protesting, even though he was sure he looked uncomfortable.  

This was compounded during the interval, when he saw the green man had crept in and occupied the seat behind him.  Or, most of the row, having whispered threats to the other patrons.  Vince made a point of ignoring him, as he tapped his shoulder with two bony fingers.

Most of his brain’s suggestions were still strongly centred on interference from Howard, who was expected to recite the threats back while he figured out how to actually deliver them.

Bob Fossil was minimal help.  He sat a few seats away, and was happy to wave back at Vince once they caught each other’s attention, but that was all.  

“Look,” Vince decided his best defense was a story, in this case, “I told you; I’m not here with any newspapers.  I’m just here to support my sister’s show, yeah?  Mum’s not well, you know, and this’ll bring in a bit of money.  Have to walk her home anyway - haven’t I? - what with creeps like you ‘angin’ around.”

“You can call me the Hitcher,” the man said.  After reaching for Vince’s hand and deciding to shake it rather than kiss it, he rushed to add, “Squire.  Pleasure.”

“Yeah,” said Vince.  He had given up on wriggling out of the Hitcher’s forcibly disturbing word-traps.  

But the Hitcher already found everything he needed.


	5. A Good Look, Followed by a Significant Look

_One thing at a time_ , Vince was struck with the thought as he opened his eyes and rolled off of his bed.  He had learned how to reach the curtains and shut them - so the room was still dark - but had forgotten to set the alarm.  Howard usually did that, too.  He shrugged, and wondered how he slept through the noise he could already clearly hear from the shop below.

Naboo was speaking above his usual mumble, and ramming a teaspoon repeatedly against porcelain.  They must’ve had customers in, too, because Vince heard unfamiliar voices mixed with the mechanical mutterings of the till.

He switched on the light and dug fruitlessly through his closet.  None of the clothes made him feel anything.  He shook his head and opted to repeat one from several weeks ago.  The last Howard had complimented; he said ‘very retro, yeah' after Vince tried to explain the patterns on his scarf.  

Inspiration was always hard to find after sleeping in the previous day’s clothes.  That’s all it was.  That, and the cloudy ache brewing at the back of his head.  

He went downstairs to try his hand at making coffee.  Howard wasn’t there to stop him, even if he wanted to spike it with six sugars and a paracetamol.  That should do the trick.

Naboo was still toying with the spoon in his teacup.  The leaves were trying to tell him something.

His sarcasm seemed to overflow from the words, so that Vince missed it completely.

“Mornin’, Coma King.”

“Hmm?”

“It was big on my planet,” Naboo replied automatically, “It means you were out being an idiot last night.”

“No,” Vince said, “it was brilliant.  I think I’m in love.”

Naboo did not commit to fully rolling his eyes, choosing instead to glare at what he could see of the brim of his turban.  When humans did things like this, they bored him.

“With a musician,” Vince continued, trying to win back Naboo’s approval.  Or at least his interest.

“Boring,” shrugged Naboo.  Vince had fallen quickly from the trophy cabinet Naboo kept him in, to show off to the rest of his species.  Shame.  He’d have to find a new one.

“It isn’t,” Vince insisted, “Met ‘em at _New Faces of Pop_.  Goes by ‘Vane.’  How cool is that?”

“Never heard of ‘em.”

“You will do, in about a week.  Absolutely genius.”

* * *

Vince’s thoughts were very similar, the night before.  He sat through the show, captivated by every click of the piano keys, and knew they had to meet.

After shrugging off the Hitcher, he crept to the stage door and approached Vane, tuning up his most charming smile as he went.  This was always more effective than the words he used - he didn’t remember, but it was probably something simple like ‘want to grab drinks?’

They ended up at the club across the street, which Vince admitted to frequenting.  He ordered them each a flirtini to start the evening, and promised only great music would play at this place, because they were both critical and talented musicians.  He’d probably winked, too, as he returned to the table.

Vane found the other’s androgyny alluring.  Dappled stubble ran along the other’s cheeks, so dark and high and pointed that it very well could’ve been placed there by a makeup brush.  And they had a soft, warm sort of voice that clipped the corners of its words.  Vane had tried things like this in the past, but decided they weren’t very good at them.  

Vince studied Vane’s hair, curled and tucked beneath a crooked hat.  He found, also, that they were taller than he expected, but he could not hear any evidence of high heels.  At first, he assumed the jacket needed a tie, but now he found it was cinched in the middle, and had tails at the back.

He took pride in reading ‘confused’ expressions from his dates, but had never mirrored one back.  He was sure to end his with a grin; he had to make it clear he was impressed and excited, not offended and hesitant.

Vane took a slow, thoughtful sip of the flirtini.

“I _love_ the name Vane,” Vince said.  He did, a lot, and thought seriously about borrowing it for future projects.  

“Thank you,” Vane was content, “It’s my stage name.  My surname’s a mess, and I just wasn’t feeling my first name, when I had the signs done.”

“It suits you,” Vince said.  He leaned forward on one hand, trying to catch Vane’s eyes.  They continued glancing down.

“What’s yours, then?”

“Oh…” Vince worried that his name would sound too similar to theirs, as if he’d stolen it.  He could not pause much longer, either, or he would look like he was lying.  Or worse, bored.

He cleared his throat and stretched the syllable softly into “Obsidian”, immediately scolding whichever member of brain-staff dug that one up.

 _Smooth_ , his secretary praised.  

They were already talking about music preferences, then favourite bands, and then - naturally - the importance of a good synthesizer.

The whole time, Vane shifted in their seat, keeping one hand over their face.  It moved over their mouth, cheeks, and chin with each new topic.  Vince began doing the same, about half as often.  This was something of a programme Vince had developed with Howard, to make sure he at least _looked_ comfortable when they were out together.

While his fingers were pressed into his cheek, Vane complimented his choice of nail colour.  

“I could do yours for you,” Vince beamed, legitimising this by saying he had a BTEC National in Beauty Therapy.

“But I keep them short,” Vane explained, “Piano, y’know.  Not a good mix.”

“I can just paint them; I don’t mind.  You free tonight?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Right, okay,” Vince said happily, “It won’t be my best work, but I can… I can definitely…”

Luckily, he was accompanied by his favourite shoulder bag that evening.  It was purple, subtly sparkly, and absolutely _massive_ inside with loads of pockets.  That’s what he relayed to Vane, as he dug through it for a bottle of primer.

Vane, meanwhile, took the final sip of their drink.  They had to eliminate any distractions available to their hands, out of fear of moving them while Vince worked.  They did not expect Vince to reach gracefully forward, and to take their hand in his.  Even before the first nail was finished, Vane had romanticised this beyond repair.  

_It’s just so I don’t ruin it by shaking - was it really that noticeable?  We’re not even holding hands, though.  Mine’s just sitting there._

Vince tried to catch Vane’s eyes, while he chattered on about the ideal treatment day, but he gave up on the pursuit.  This was another thing he learned from - or, more accurately, _for_ \- Howard.  Most of the time, Howard was genuinely listening, but too distracted by the touch to provide any sort of useful answer.  It would either be secured silence or an open gate of rambling.  Howard was new at this sort of thing, and Vince forced himself to be patient.

Vince determined, after several more tries, that Vane’s eyes were brown.  He shouldn’t have been surprised, really, with the pattern the evening had adopted.  At first, he thought they were green, based on the smudges of olive eyeliner which framed them.  Perhaps their owner wished they were.  Vince could sort that out too, given time.

“Vane,” he led their attention back toward the table, “They aren’t doing the next round until the weekend, right? _New Faces of Pop_?”

“Right.”

“Do you wanna do somethin’ tomorrow, then?”

His internal secretary suggested capitalising on another trait of Howard’s, gambling on the hope Vane would share it.  

 _Can’t be vague_ , she said, _he’d never agree to a blank to-do list.  Just numbers done in crayon… imagine that!_

Vince shook his head slightly before continuing.

“We could meet for coffee, then there’s this _genius_ salon on the high street.  Or if you’d feel better with just me, we can go back to mine and I can sort your hair and makeup out.  Help you put together a new look for the next show, yeah?”

Vane became aware of their hand, still draped over Vince’s, even though all the nails were painted and likely dry.

“Sorry,” Vince said, moving his hands away and throwing the polish back into his purse, “I get kinda lost if I’m not talking about looks.  I meant to say I wanted to see you again because this has been fun, but…”

“It has been fun,” Vane agreed, polarly lost in his look already, “I’d like that.”

With three different glitter pens, Vince wrote out his mobile number.

* * *

“Sounds like you had a night out with Howard and the occult,” Naboo said listlessly.  He expected this would eventually become his problem.

Vince just shook his head.

“I thought about that,” Vince admitted.  He had a hard time thinking of _anything_ other than Howard last night, “but no moustache.  I don’t think he would’ve shaved it off.  Loves the stupid thing.”

“It’s black magic, you moron.”

Vince mumbled ‘still wouldn’t’ while he reached for his phone, buzzing away in his pocket.

“That’s easy stuff, anyway, shapeshifting,” Naboo continued.

Agreement arrived from Print #51, whose vacant smile began twitching downward at one corner.  Naboo watched it, while Vince watched text messages flash up on his phone.  The shaman rolled his eyes; Vince dashed up the stairs, exclaiming he had a date to get ready for.

 


	6. Howard Only Records History with the Hope of Repeating It

The novel remained in misordered stacks, crumpled in pockets of Howard’s suitcase.  He was constantly trying to add to it, at least in his thoughts, but guessed he had been away from Vince for too long to write anything with the accuracy and quality of prose it deserved.  A line occurred to him, about his insistence on permanence in crossing physical boundaries - deeply poetic and painfully true - but he had forgotten the order of the words by the time he moved from the kitchen to retrieve his notebook.  He returned to the mixing bowl, dissolving flour into milk and trying to think of something other than a series of crimps.  

The notebook was on the counter, now, but remained untouched through completion of the meal.  He remembered to remove it just before his guest was due to arrive, hastily burying it between pages of the novel and slamming the suitcase shut.

Then he waited.

He was partially hesitant of microwaving the plate of pancakes for what would be the third time.  But he also suspected, with his typical luck, this would bring a buzz from the front door so he could finally go and collect his company.  

As he stood, he could hear Lester rummaging about in his bedroom closet. _Probably by mistake_ , Howard thought, as he left to check on him.

While he was away, Vane arrived, claiming a plate of the cold pancakes and a seat at the table.

“Slept late, did you?” Howard said, as he returned.

“Stayed out late.”

“Really?” Howard sat down, “ _You_?  You’re the least adventurous person I know.”

The guest pointed out, with a relieved sigh, that Howard did not know many people.  He sighed and said that was fair.

“Met ‘em after the gig last night, actually,” they proceeded, “So it’s your fault, all of this.”

They checked their phone.  Howard slid his knife slowly down through his own stack of pancakes.  

“Oh yeah?”

Anything that fell under the umbrella of ‘relationships’ was not something Howard liked discussing, but the question felt appropriate.  If he couldn’t ask his double, who could he?  Vince was purposely absent, anyway, and he had to talk to _someone_.

“Yeah,” Vane confirmed, “It was… It was nice.”

He watched as his guest drifted off on the memory.  For a moment, he thought about snapping his fingers and saying ‘Joycey?’ but knew they preferred their stage name, especially during tours.  Not that they disliked any derivatives of ‘Joyce’ - as they borrowed that name from a favorite author - but their new mate loved ‘Vane.’ _Loved_ it, and Vane was constantly borrowing praise and labels from others before defining themself.

Again, they glanced at their mobile.  Brushing it with painted nails, they sighed.

“Held hands and everything.”

Howard wanted to contribute something to the conversation, other than the chronological list his brain secretary presented him with, which covered the most important times he had held hands with anyone.  Every occasion, the secretary highlighted, was with Vince.

His mind wandered now, too.

The oldest occurrence on the list was from the first time they went to a zoo together, on a school trip.  Vince promised he knew the best order to visit the animals in - because Howard had been asking since they boarded the van that morning - and had to drag him along to see the lions.  The next time, they were travelling together during their gap year, and Vince insisted Paris was too romantic for them not to hold hands, while Howard agreed only to deter potential pickpockets.  

The most recent was on purpose.  Howard crept down from the roof after his party and hid as quickly as possible in their bedroom.  Vince met him much later, reeling giddily and falling weightlessly to his bed, then stopping to ask how Howard’s ‘momentary lapse’ had gone.  He reached for the yellow teacup on the table between their beds, out of habit, at the same time Howard did.  Howard stared at him and pulled his hand away, immediately questioning whether that was even his drink while _knowing_ it was.  He made it before leaving for the roof in the first place, then forgot about it, overwhelmed by how awful he felt.

Vince lingered after him, told him _again_ not to worry, then apologised because they both knew the phrase didn’t help.  

“It was nothing,” Vince said, voice kind and unconcerned.  Howard shrugged and insisted the opposite.  They sat in silence.

Until Vince scooted closer to the table, and successfully caught Howard’s hand.  

“I just meant I didn’t mind,” Vince said, “C’mere.”

But Howard didn’t move, suffocated under the weight of the moment and the stress of moving incorrectly.  Vince sighed, giggled as he always did in this sort of situation, and showed himself to Howard’s mattress.  Their hands remained intertwined, with Vince’s sometimes stroking Howard’s in a way he was surprised to find completely comforting.

“Need the beds pushed together, yeah?” Vince suggested, already doing so.  He caught Howard nodding.

That was his physical boundary bridge burned, then.  Vince needed to feel things to understand them; fabrics and fingerpaints, marble and clay.  Hands, hair, and faces.  Now that Howard allowed it, Vince would never ignore an opportunity to hold onto him, to understand him.

Howard thanked the secretary for managing to store and sort the details so perfectly.  He had to transpose this as soon as possible for his novel.

* * *

Meanwhile, Vince tried to create a clear and accurate representation of Vane, but had difficulty separating traits which were unique to Howard from ones that were purposely generic.  Such as Vane’s face, which he thought was very ordinary.  There was minimal makeup, in the areas and colours one would expect.  Surely Howard could’ve put that together, after watching Vince for so many years.  Vane’s posture and nervous habits could belong to Howard, too.  And eyes.  Vince struggled to remember any words which would give away the voice - totally out of its depth and trying too hard to avoid sounding natural.  But nothing came to mind.

He still couldn’t believe it was Howard.  Not completely.  To help his thought process, he remained in the outfit Howard recently complimented, and applied only subtle makeup before leaving to meet Vane for coffee.

Arriving early was another safe bet, based on his knowledge of Howard.  Part of him hoped Vane would arrive late, and prove Naboo’s ridiculous theory wrong immediately.  Shaving and Shapeshifting, he maintained, were equally unlikely.  Howard was too ordinary for things like that.

They agreed on meeting at the coffee shop before noon, but had not exchanged texts beyond that.  Vince checked his phone as he settled into an armchair, bracing his drink.

He could taste peppermint syrup, laced over the whipped cream.  He didn’t remember ordering it this way, but was too focused on his phone to notice.  Anyway, he was used to getting fancified drinks from bored baristas, and had gone to enough trendy parties in his time to know nothing was wrong with it.

Between slow sips, he sent what he hoped was an unintrusive message, punctuated by three red Xs and a smiley face.  The kind of text Howard would roll his eyes at, but ultimately respond to, even if it was just to call it ridiculous.  

He waited.

Outside, just out of the window’s frame, a blur of green and black passed.  

The Hitcher caught Vane by the arm, and presented his box.

“In you go, squire,” he said, as the decorated lid creaked backward.

Vane gave their best facial approximation of ‘not in a hundred years.’

“You’re the one from the theatre, aren’t ya?” their attacker continued, “The young man with the ol’ Joanna.”

Vane lost all appearance of confidence or intimidation, given away by a frightened squeak.  

The Hitcher was no longer convinced this was a young man, and was about to ask whether this was Vince’s sister, or if they were otherwise acquainted.  But the box was open, and he would need to use its power quickly.

“In ya go,” he said, as Vane was sucked inside.  He certainly recognised the face from the theatre, and that was what mattered.  The show could not continue without an accompanist, and the Hitcher was more than ready to step in.

* * *

Howard invented a feeling of jealousy, and was unable to free himself from it.  He gave Vane encouraging agreement, when they said they were leaving to meet their match for drinks and a day out.  Inside, he felt like Vince had announced he was leaving for a party at the last minute.  Whether or not Vince invited him to come along, the feeling was equally queasy.  He didn’t like it.

He knew they couldn’t sustain their argument forever; even with the pedal pressed down, a piano key would eventually fall silent.


	7. Progress is Made

Vince finished his latte, satisfied that Vane was, so far, within the realm of ‘acceptably late.’  He went to order himself something different, and texted Vane to ask about their order, as well.  Instead of waiting for a reply, though, he found himself at the counter ordering Howard’s usual drink, feeling delightfully thoughtful and unmatchably intuitive.

But the window of ‘acceptable’ lateness passed, and Vane’s drink was quickly becoming cold.

Vince found himself calling Howard, rather than texting Vane.

“Yeah?” Howard said, eagerly.

“D’you wanna come meet me at Aida?”

“...What?”

Without Howard there to receive his glaring, Vince turned to Howard’s drink instead.

“I’ve never been stood up in all my life, and I’m not about to be stood up by _you_.”

“Right,” Howard said, “I’m on my way.”

They were reunited more quickly than Vince expected, with Howard easily finding him at the table.  He sat and blinked at the mug of tea, impressed to the point of assuming something must be wrong with it, or it wouldn’t be there for him.  Vince rolled his eyes at this, and told him to ‘go ahead.’

“Miss me?” Howard mumbled.  The tea was cold, but he knew better than to expect perfection from Vince’s unpracticed gestures.  Trying was enough.

“I guess so,” Vince said.  “What have you been up to?”

“Oh, y’know.  Playing some gigs.  You?”

“Going to gigs,” Vince stirred his drink. “You’ve must’ve been at some jazz place, yeah?  You haven’t been to The Velvet Onion recently…?”

“No,” Howard said.  Suspiciously quickly, Vince thought.

“Didn’t think so,” Vince said, “They’ve been doing _New Faces of Pop_.  Not even close to your thing.”

Howard made a comment about spanning the genres - sometimes including music.  

“You oughta come to the finals with me, then,” Vince grinned, “I can get us good seats; I know everyone at the theatre.  Even the piano player.”

Howard swallowed uneasily, and slammed down his teacup.

“You…” he mumbled, in a way only Vince was able to understand, “you know the piano player?”

“Yeah, Vane,” Vince confirmed, “Well nice.”

Vince watched as Howard slipped from surprised to suspicious, and then quickly into careless.

“Well, that’s good,” Howard measured his words, and made them all equal in length.

“And I’m, er,” Vince began, “I’m sorry for behaving like a tit.”

“Right,” said Howard, unceremoniously.  

Then he felt another pang of jealousy, and rushed to amend his statement.

“I can move back in, then.”

“Yeah,” Vince said, convinced his game had taken a new twist, “you should.”

* * *

Vince returned to the flat, satisfied with proceedings, and ignoring his own confusion.  Howard would be back soon, just after breaking their personal record of time spent apart and disappointing Naboo’s estimate of a week.  He said he had prior commitments, anyway, while Vince shrugged.

The bells above the door did not sufficiently attract the shaman’s attention.  He had his back turned, and was staring toward the exit to the garden.  Vince expected to be lectured for returning late, once Naboo was out of whatever sort of magical or medicinal trance this was.  He would take advantage of the peace.

He retrieved a metallic marker from its spot on Howard’s side of the counter, ready to sign the next batch of printed portraits.  But he caught sight of the original, displayed prominently on the wall beside the stairway, and dropped everything.  Naboo turned in his seat.

“The hell’s _that_?!” Vince demanded.  Naboo was thinking of saying something similar, to the noise, but then he thought this would rather defeat the purpose.  

The painted figure’s shoulders were drawn in, now, as if by an unseen weight.  Its eyes had dulled to the point of appearing grey and filmy.  The intriguing magazine-cover pout had been exchanged for limp, sagging lips and twisted teeth.  

“What?” shrugged Naboo.

“Wha’d’ya mean ‘what?’   _Look_!”  

Vince turned his head sharply toward it.  Reluctantly, Naboo’s gaze followed his up the wall.

“Oh,” Naboo breathed, “You can see it too, huh?”

Vince said yes, and that the changes were obvious.

“Me ‘n’ Bollo split a hash-cake with breakfast,” Naboo continued. “I didn’t think you’d see it, too.”

They continued staring, with Vince intermittently kneeling to collect the fallen pen and posters.  Naboo got his disused teacup from the counter and stared into the gritty leaves.

“It’s black magic,” he said slowly.  “Was that date of yours with Howard?”

He sidestepped toward the painting and reached up to remove it, scraping away as much blu-tack as he could reach with his nails.  Vince leaned in to help with the higher parts.

“Yeah,” Vince said flatly.  He was never bothered by questions or assumptions like this one; only the painting troubled him now, “Does that mean that’s gonna happen to me, what’s on the painting?”

“It shouldn’t overlap at all, since Howard didn’t touch the original.”

Vince knew he had no chance of evading Naboo’s superhuman perceptions, had he been fully focused and free of shamanistic supplements.  Vince sighed with relief at this, which Naboo misunderstood as confirmation.

“We still oughta get rid of it,” Naboo said, “Just in case.”

While he wanted to argue, he couldn’t think of a valid reason.  Only Howard tolerated baseless bickering; Naboo would walk away and laugh to himself until Vince felt properly ridiculous.

This time he took the painting and walked away silently, but Vince did not find it any less uncomfortable.

* * *

The next morning, Vince woke up with the alarm he finally remembered to set, playing something dismal off a jazz station.  As he went downstairs to open the shop, he neither heard nor saw any signs of Naboo.  An explanation was waiting on his salon chair, written in boring black ink, which he did not bother reading; the mere presence of a note meant Naboo was away on purpose.  It didn’t matter why.

He moved slowly through the shop, rearranging some items and turning over price-tags when he found them backward.  It was rare for him to open on time, if he was by himself.  He tossed Naboo’s note from the chair to the counter, and then slouched into his seat.

Since Naboo walked away from him the previous evening, he had been feeling simultaneously selfish and insignificant.  Craving more of himself, and feeling empty.  He had trouble picking a single reason for Vane to have ignored him, but the concept seemed likely.

The workers in his brain could do nothing to revive him, when he was like this.  He flipped the sign, unlocked the door, and returned to sulking in his seat.  But after a few quiet minutes of this, the secretary excitedly set down her tea and picked up her desk-phone.  They were in range!  

Howard shut the shop door behind him, and went immediately for the note on the table.  Vince’s eyes were trained to follow him, and he found himself leaning forward in his seat and almost smiling.

“Where’s Naboo?” he unfolded the paper, and answered his own question; an address was written there, along with something about a ‘massive roll of euros.’

“What’re you doing here, Howard?”

He set down the note before he spoke, making sure it was folded exactly as Naboo intended it.

“I feel… different, Vince.  Like there was something here I had to do.”

Vince could not take his staring seriously, but refrained from laughing because he knew Howard hated it.

“Like what?”

“Dunno.  Something to do with you, I’d imagine.”

Vince did laugh now, and was only able to backpedal by confirming Howard wasn’t trying to come on to him (“I’m perfectly happy where we are, thank you.”)

“Are you sulking?” Howard added, quickly changing the subject.

“I was, yeah,” Vince said, leaning his head on one hand.

“Oh.  Then I must be here to cheer you up.  What’s, er…?” he learned nothing from Vince’s face, “What’s the matter?”

“Well… yesterday when you met me at Aida, I was waitin’ on Vane, but got stood up.  No call or text or nothing.”

Howard was accustomed to being the world’s most solid second choice, but never Vince’s.  Momentarily, his mouth twisted down at one corner.  He could internalise jealousy, if it would make Vince happy.

“No,” he said, “that sounds normal.  Probably overwhelmed by your face - you know how that goes - and forgot to follow through.  It’s only been _one day_.”

“I can’t go one day without talking to _you_.”

Howard didn’t know what to say, other than, “is that all?”

“That, and my painting’s _grotesque_.”

“What do you m--?”

“Naboo took it out of the room; I couldn’t even look at it.”

Vince said he did not know _where_ Naboo had taken it, but Howard suddenly understood Naboo’s note, and knew he was going to have to get it back.  


	8. Humans are Too Sentimental, and it Rarely Does Them Any Good

Naboo was not a frequent visitor to Bethnal Green.  He walked quickly, artwork tucked under his arm and wrapped in plastic.  The previous night, he had advertised it - mostly accurately - on the Shaman Club Chatroom.  After claiming it held the secrets of immortality, he found an anonymous but suitable buyer within his walking range.

Just as dawn broke, he arrived at the specified address.  He found an envelope -  brimming with euros - fastened to the door-knocker, and decided to leave the painting outside.  The house did not seem inviting, and the correct flat was up several flights of stairs; this was not something a respectable shaman would spend energy on.  

Within the flat - and within a room and within a further box - Vane sat and stared dejectedly downward.  Unwelcome whispers told of a woman called Elsie, who would soon be visiting the cells to serve tea.  Despite their hunger, Vane hoped this was untrue, as the menu consisted exclusively of black tea and jellied eels.

The box sucked away Vane’s few strands of confidence; they spent the evening scolding themself for not even trying to fight off their attacker, for not leaving even a minute sooner, and for neglecting to answer Obsidian’s charming texts.

They checked their phone often, even though the first inspection revealed there was no reception inside the box.  At first, they paced and waved it toward the ceiling, but this practice quickly disappeared with their self-assurance.  Instead, they composed a virtual novella of texts and saved them as drafts to send later.  These began innocently - ‘sorry i missed you earlier, wanna reschedule?’ - and dwindled into despair - ‘my life did not deserve to overlap with yours for more than one brief moment. i shouldve known better and hope i didnt disappoint you.’  It was comforting, somehow, to know they could express these feelings without them being simultaneously read by their intended.  Fine, if they were read later in quick succession; Vane would be done being embarrassed by then.  They hoped.

Another cry of ‘eels!’ rounded the corner.  Vane sank back against the cell wall.  

* * *

“Where’ve you been?” Vince asked, upon Naboo’s return to the shop.  A few prints had been purchased in his absence, with folded euros still sitting on the countertop in front of the till.

Naboo did not blink.

“Do you listen to anything I say?”

“I listen to _everything_ you say.”

“Yeah?” urged Naboo, “What about this morning, when I told you I was going out and would leave a note, ‘mm?”

Vince had been asleep, then.

“Howard read it,” Vince said, as if this was an acceptable replacement.  Which it may have been, if he could figure out how to explain the unique way their brains shared information.

“What the hell was _Howard_ doing here?”

“I dunno.” Vince returned to his salon chair, pressured there by Naboo’s glaring, “Said he had to cheer me up, or something…?”

Naboo moved to stand behind the counter, looking intimidating but only feeling annoyed.

“You need to listen to me, now,” he instructed, waiting to catch Vince’s eyes, “I’ve got some freely-dispensed Words of Wisdom for you.”

“Christ,” Vince said to himself.  

Naboo brushed this off, and claimed it wasn’t a fable, but something from his favourite book published on earth.  As much as he claimed to love it, it had a very forgettable title.  Vince looked unimpressed, after Naboo said it had a yellow dustjacket.  Immediately, he moved onto the moral.

“I’m not 'avin' you moping about, sulking at customers, not even _puttin’ money away_ \- because you’re feeling things for other people.  You can’t _do_ that, Vince.  Get back to focusing on yourself.”

Vince felt like he had walked into the wrong lecture on his first day at school, or at the very least, like he had sat down in the wrong seat.

“I never do anything unless it benefits me,” Naboo went on.  

Vince asked about the times Naboo had rescued him and Howard, to which Naboo replied - glaring pointedly at him - that he had a shop to run and wasn’t about to do it himself.  Until they did something really stupid, he found it much easier to dust off the magic carpet and sort things out, instead of doing actual and depressingly mortal work.

“Drop everything that doesn’t make you happy,” Naboo said curtly.

“Why are you tellin’ _me_ that, if you only do things for yourself?”

The shaman gave a brief and vague account of his trophy cabinet, which contained only one very impressive specimen.  Vince blushed.

“Look at you, gettin’ all mushy.”

“Yeah,” Naboo said, reapplying his stoic voice, “humans like that sort of stuff.”

* * *

Unsuccessfully, Howard tried to remove a section of written pages from his revised suitcase.  He knew he had to bring along at least a few of his categorised notebooks, in case inspiration hit during his mission, but he wanted a selection of earlier pieces to compare to.  None were good enough to make the journey alone, but there were none he hated enough to leave behind.  He wanted to rush to find and fix the painting - whatever would make Vince happy - but he had trouble motivating himself to leave.

And Lester effectively barred the bedroom door.  He held out a rolled newspaper.

“You didn’t tell me you got kidnapped outside Aida,” he said.

Howard stopped to explain his confused facial expression.

“It’s on the front page,” Lester continued.

Howard skimmed the article, and found that someone referred to only as ‘the most generic _New Face of Pop_ ’ had indeed been taken away by someone in a ‘comparatively striking green mask.’

“That’s not me,” he said, “I told you, Lester, it’s a double act?  It’s _two_ people.”

“I wish I was as modest as that,” Lester mumbled.  “How did you get out so quick?”

Howard rolled his eyes and rushed to grab his suitcase.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Lester asked, prompted by the sound of Howard doing up the zips, “We’ve still got the final show this Sunday.”

“I’ll be back by then,” Howard lacked knowledge to back this with, but sounded convincing enough.  Either he would return with Vane, or he would return in time to play the gig himself.

And with Vince’s painting… his to-do list was a mess.

* * *

As hard as he tried, Vince was unable to drop all of his self-loathing instantly.  He continued moping and checking his phone, finding nothing new from Vane or Howard or anyone.  He didn’t like being alone, virtually or physically, and felt like something inside of him - a previously unidentified member of the brain staff - was crying out for attention.

After this, Vince found the remaining prints got progressively worse, with #100 looking more like a skeleton than a respectable model.  He wasn’t sure if he should complain to Naboo or to Howard, and eventually settled on neither.  Instead, he focused on entertaining himself, scribbling tiaras and eye-patches and scarves over some of them with metallic markers.  The crying stopped.

Naboo trudged back downstairs later that evening , reminding Vince to flip the sign and lock the door.

“What you doing?” he asked, to a fanned display of ruined pictures.  

Vince shrugged and insisted he was having fun.

“But you didn’t draw the wrinkles on ‘em, did you?” he proceeded, holding one up.  

“Course not,” Vince said.

“This is bad,” part of him waited for Bollo to add that he had a bad feeling about the situation, but the ape was already asleep upstairs.

“What is?” Vince uncapped a marker, ready to fix whatever illustration Naboo was apparently critiquing.

“The whole thing.  The prints shouldn’t be changing, too.  I know I _made_ them when the original was still wet, but I’m not licensed to do anything dark like this.”

“Dark?  Isn’t that what you’re always saying about Howard?  He must’a done it when ‘e--”

" _Howard touched the original?"_  Naboo practically growled.

“Yeah,” Vince announced, failing to stifle the fantasy his brain secretary presented, “he did my eyeliner.”

“I don’t believe this,” Naboo said, followed by something unintelligible about eyes being windows to one’s soul, and how the painting would need to be destroyed by an enchanted but disappointingly blunt stick.  Vince blinked at him, understanding nothing.  


	9. Two Bodies, Shared by One Consciousness

Howard remembered the important parts of the address; the street, the house number.  He had to make it there, first, and then he could enquire specifically about the painting.  There wasn’t time to stop by the Nabootique, he told himself.  And if Vince didn’t piece together his mission, this was shaping up to be Howard’s grandest romantic gesture yet.

He brought the smaller of his two suitcases, which held nothing but novel-pages, the newspaper, and a bag of crisps.  Every so often, he would pause to scribble notes on the uppermost paper; this entire undertaking was inspirational.

Vince, meanwhile, was sketching a pair of panthers on the back of Naboo’s note.  This was his preferred method of developing plans; he heard Naboo being a good deal more practical upstairs, rummaging through his closet for important enchanted items.  He drew a single pink line across both of his figures, creating a shared mouth.  Immediately, and in two distinct voices, it asked why Vince had not yet gone after Howard.

It was time for him to try his hand at being practical; he rushed to the bedroom to change. 

* * *

Vane forced themself to finish the cup of tea, but not the plate of mushy jelly, which did a poor job of concealing the chunks of eel.  The plate remained completely unsampled.

They composed a text to complete their series: ‘i was very lucky to have met you, even if it was only once. i hope you wont forget me.’

* * *

It was not overly difficult for Vince to catch up with Howard, after the Practical Panthers insisted he read the address on the back of their home-page.

“Vince!” Howard watched him smile, and immediately returned it, “What are you doing here?”

“You’re not allowed to do solo missions on your own anymore, ‘member?”

“It’s not-- it’s for my novel.”

“The one about me?” Vince said, until Howard nodded, “Then I’d better stay.”

“Fair enough,” Howard agreed. “Did you bring anything?”

Vince indicated his purple bag, which Howard hoped was full of things that might be helpful, and then held up the address, which already was.

“And _these_ ,” Vince said, happily flipping over the note, “these guys are genius!”

This, then, could be their best combined gesture, and Howard wasn’t about to ruin it by bringing up Vane.  He reached to his side and shoved the newspaper to the bottom of his suitcase.  Vince mirrored this, tucking the panthers safely away in his shoulder bag.  Then he leaned over, briefly patting Howard’s stomach before resting his hand on Howard’s forearm.  His head landed as close as it could reach to Howard’s shoulder.

“Do you have a plan?” Vince asked, as he did this, “I _love_ your plans.”

Howard felt as though he had missed about three turns in a board game.  Vince had taken these on his behalf without telling him.  He played the way he hoped Howard would, saturated with sentiment.  

 _Humans love that sort of thing_ , his secretary replayed the line from Naboo.

“I didn’t have time for a plan,” Howard said. “All I know is we’re getting that painting back so we can fix whatever’s wrong with it.”

“Can’t fix it,” Vince countered. “It’s gotta be destroyed.”

“Come on now, it can’t be _that_ bad.”

“No, we’ve gotta destroy it.  Naboo said so.”

Howard stopped, and dragged Vince back with him.

“He said it went off last time you tried to fix it, cos you’re some sort of demon…”

“Naboo’s got no business saying things like that--”

“Well I think he’d know.”

The pause was not entirely uncomfortable, but Vince always had a knack for extending arguments.

“He said I should get rid’a you, as well, cos of all that.  But I don’t believe him; you’re too boring to be a demon.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

To apologise, Vince squeezed Howard’s arm twice before letting go.  

“He said I should get rid of things that don’t make me happy,” Vince proceeded, “and you’re always bangin’ on about gestures.  So I’m binning my masterpiece and holding onto you.  Pretty good, huh?”

“That is pretty good, yeah.”

Something for the novel.

“Anyway, I’m _starving_ ,” Vince nudged, “Have you got anything to eat?”

“I thought you packed, this time,” Howard shifted his eyes to Vince’s purse, “What’s all that?”

“I dunno; I just grabbed it.”

“Well, you had time to change your shirt.  Why do you always put on the most ridiculous thing you own, when we’ve got to do something serious?”

Vince had changed trousers and shoes, too, but saw no value in pointing this out.  Instead, he tugged at the shirt fabric, holding some up so Howard could see.

“These are well practical,” he argued, “they look crumpled up on purpose, so you can fold them down really small and chuck ‘em into suitcases.  Perfect for last-minute missions.”

“You’re wearing it.”

“Yeah,” Vince grinned.  He had put his entire brain to work on scouring his wardrobe for something just like this - the perfect contouring fit and complementary colour scheme - for his reunion with Howard.  But he did not point this out, either.

“It does suit you,” Howard conceded.  He handed over the bag of crisps, which Vince beamed at, and was willing to share.

When they reached the house, they glanced up in unison, before looking at one another.  Howard stepped forward to knock.  They were greeted by a familiar green face; Vince ducked behind Howard, still holding his arm tightly.

“Evening, Treacle,” the Hitcher drawled.

Howard considered punching him in the nose, but he also considered fainting.  He would have done, if Vince were not there relying on him for safety.  Vince’s nails dug into Howard’s wrist, reminding him to stay awake. 

This was only effective until the Hitcher reached forward and slammed his cane against the ground in front of them.  A mist of what the Hitcher liked to call ‘the most useful drug in London’ descended over them and they fell, unconscious, into a messy pile.

* * *

Vane could hear muffled voices, and the unmistakable _swish_ of a rope being thrown.  Then, it grated against itself as it was tied in many knots.  There was a hint of laughter, too, from the Hitcher, and two opposite renditions of ‘hmm? Where am I?!’

“You--!” Howard’s voice said.  He sounded half-asleep but as upset as possible, “ _You_ kidnapped Vane!”

“ _What_?” Vane recognised this as Obsidian’s voice, “Who kidnapped Vane?”

“He did,” Howard said.  “Sorry, Vince.  I would’ve told you, but I didn’t want you to get upset and-- I mean, it was in the papers, if you--”

“He don’t read the papers,” the Hitcher’s voice was next, “Do you, Squire?”

“No,” Obsidian - _Vince_ \- said disappointedly.

Vane had heard Howard talking about this Vince character before, but the thought of him overlapping with Obsidian had never occurred.  They expected that, if they were ever introduced to Vince, it would be done by Howard.  Likely at their wedding, from the way Howard talked about him.  Vane shrugged and approached the door of their cell, to better hear the conversation.

“Where are they?” Vince continued, “What’d you do to them?”

“Blimey,” the Hitcher said, “this why I had you lot drugged.  You don’t need another dose, do ya?”

Vane imagined the two of them looking hopeless and shaking their heads.

“I’ve got places to be, mind.  Important things to do.”

At this point, Vane felt him pick the box up and pat it several times.  

“It’s that painting there,” the Hitcher continued, “looks almost like your face, doesn’t it, boy?  Beautiful, bony, and charming.  A deal, even at 800 counterfeit euros.  You know what I did to it?” he paused, and decided to shake the box for emphasis, “I stared at it for a good three hours today, and already I can feel its magic coursin’ through m’ veins, as if I’m a good decade younger.  So I’m returnin’ to my old friend, the stage.”

He switched off the lights and left, box under his arm.


	10. Escape and Disguise

Vince could not move his hands off of Howard’s, which made both of them aware of how vulnerable he felt.  The Hitcher tied them this way on purpose, between cackling.

“I wish I knew about Vane sooner,” Vince mumbled.  Howard had to lean back, just to hear him properly.

“Y-you’re not upset with me for not telling you?”

He felt Vince shrug, raising his shoulders so they nearly met Howard’s.

“No, of course not.  It’s alright.”

“I don’t think it is,” Howard said, “I could’ve told you about… them a lot sooner.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah… remember when I told you I had a double?  Vane’s it; they’re mine.”

“I should’a known; you couldn’t leave me alone like that,” Vince said, gradually regaining his usual, content tone, “When’d you meet and set all that up?”

Howard paused and inhaled shakily before answering.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, with my double - right? - I met her and we just clicked and decided to stay in touch, that it was fine to copy looks back and forth, all that.”

“That’s not a double, Vince, that’s a fan-club.  You don’t meet and agree on everything, it just happens.  We’ve always known each other like that.”

“That is well creepy,” Vince maintained, “You mean you just suddenly _knew_ Vane without having met or talked at all?”

“I can’t remember how I met _you_ ,” Howard sounded defensive.

Vince couldn’t either, but he was sure it had happened in a way more normal than this.  He wondered if, instead of shapeshifting, Howard moved back and forth between both bodies.  Instinctively, he slid his hands up as high as he could reach, hoping to find the zip to his bag, which was shoved somewhere between them.  He wanted to ask the Practical Panthers about this; it seemed very much up their street.  Also, he knew he had a pair of scissors in the bag.

“What y’ doing?” Howard asked.  Their wrists were tied together, and he did not like his being tugged up without warning.  The rope peeled at his skin.

“I’m trying to get us out of here,” Vince said, repeating the movement and just barely loosening the knot, “That, and seeing for sure if you’re a demon.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“It’s not like it’s a _bad_ thing,” Vince said, “ _I_ don’t mind, anyway.  I already told you.”

“Stop touching my hand.”

“Sorry.  Pull the other way, then, would you?”

* * *

The Hitcher arrived at the theatre and hovered around the stage door, waiting for someone to open it from the inside.  When an unsuspecting stagehand did so, he claimed to have refreshments - citing his black box - which he had to distribute to the dressing rooms immediately.

He locked himself in Vane’s dressing room and set the box down on the ground.  As he knelt to open it, he prepared a short chant; he had left the magical cane at home in favour of appearing young and inconspicuous.  Fortunately, his voice contained more potent dark magic than Howard Moon was capable of holding at one time, even if he volunteered his whole body.  

Someone knocked on the door, causing the Hitcher to increase the speed of his transformation.  He slammed the box shut, immune to Vane’s protests and the rattling bars of their cell.  

When he opened the dressing room door, he looked almost completely like Vane.  

Not that it mattered.

Lester Corncrake reached for his shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze.  The curls were still forming in the Hitcher’s new hair, waiting to be stifled by a hat.  He did not wait for his top hat to change before throwing it on and reaching to shake Lester’s hand.

“Well I’ll be damned.  I didn’t think you’d make it back in time, Howard.”

* * *

Their wrists were achingly sore, and despite their efforts they could not reach Vince’s bag.  So far, Howard had managed to get his coat mostly off - only further obscuring the rope - while Vince had thinned some of it with the help of his boot-heel.  As he gave up, he spoke.

“We always end up like this, don’t we, Howard?  Tied together...”

“Yeah.”

“Are y-” Vince began quietly, “Are you gonna confess your love for me, this time?”

Howard expected the darkness of the room to make this more difficult, but found the opposite to be true.

“In a bit,” Howard replied, “I’m still working out my last words.”

“Something from your novel?”

“Yeah.”

Vince took a slow breath, and made sure his words sounded genuine.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to read it.”

“It’s alright,” Howard shrugged, while Vince interlaced their fingers, “I didn’t finish it, anyway.”

Spiraling above the flat, deliberately too high to hear whatever sappy bickering he knew they would devolve to, Naboo sat on the back of his magic carpet.  Bollo was driving, so Naboo could finish his soothsaying tea and flip through a guidebook.  Undoing knots was easy, even from a distance.  He lazily flicked out his fingers.

With the rope sorted, he prepared his travel-size crystal ball.  With it, he watched them shake off the ropes, stand, then turn to face each other with too much enthusiasm.  Vince’s hands landed blindly over Howard’s face, thumbs dabbing the corners of his moustache.  Naboo rolled his eyes while Bollo glanced over and laughed.

“Those _morons_!” Naboo said, silencing Bollo, “Bolting out the door, holding hands, not even bothering with the sodding painting.”

“Got a bad feeling about this,” Bollo added.

“No kidding,” Naboo confirmed, “I might be sick.”

* * *

Bob Fossil tried to sound intimidating, growling ‘no late watchers’ through the barely-open door, until he realised he was talking to Vince.  Howard was slouching behind him, on purpose, waiting until the door was open to make himself known.

Vince was still holding onto his hand, frequently rearing his head back to giggle at him or press warm, friendly breaths to his skin.  They were on a proper mission, now, Vince said.  It felt great to agree on something; a rare indulgence for the pair of them.  Each saw the other as their very own dashing hero, off to rescue Vane from certain peril.  As soon as Fossil let them in.

“You let me down, Vincey-pie,” Fossil muttered, “You brought _him_ -” he gestured carelessly at Howard, “and I already sold your seats off.”

“That’s alright,” Vince continued smiling. “We can stand at the back.  I’ve gotta meet someone after the show.”

Fossil took his free hand and led him to the most open part of the room.  He retrieved a black bowl from one of the tables, and sifted his fingers through it.

The lights dimmed as a new act stepped through the curtains.  Fossil ignored this and continued speaking.

“Can I get you anything, huh?  Cupcakes, a sandwich… you like these mints?” he displayed the bowl, which held a mound of polo mints, “We call ‘em lifesavers in the States, y’know, so it’s always a good idea to take one.”

Vince glanced back at Howard, who nodded in a way that told him to go ahead.  Vince’s hand slithered free of Fossil’s and scooped up some of the mints, hoping this would be enough encouragement for Fossil to leave them alone.

“Really, we’re just here to talk to someone,” Howard said, because Fossil refused to move.

“The piano player,” Vince said helpfully, “Gotta make sure they’re okay.”

Fossil stared down, eyes grazing the end of his necktie.  

“Okay?” he bellowed, “That freak’s never played better!”

Howard and Vince looked momentarily at one another before turning and straining to see between the piano and keyboards.  Despite his heels, Vince could not see the figure’s face.  Resting one hand on Howard’s shoulder, he pulled himself up and asked if Howard could see any more effectively.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “and you’re not gonna like it.”

He described the face - unmistakably Vane’s - topped by a black hat embellished with polos.

Three dissonant chords were repeatedly struck.


	11. Within the Realm of Reason

“What’re we gonna do?” Vince whispered into Howard’s shoulder as the strange song continued.

“You leave that to me, Little Man.”

Even though Vince rarely put faith in Howard’s plans, he never had his own to substitute.  He was ready to do whatever Howard told him, with the expectation it would be soon.  But Howard continued leaning on the table, eyes darting between Fossil and the figures on stage.

“What’re _you_ gonna do, then?” Vince nudged, “What if Vane’s hurt or something?”

“No,” Howard said softly, after Fossil stopped watching them, “I’ve seen this before; it's shapeshifting.  We’ll wait ‘til the interval.”

Vince drummed his hands nervously on the tabletop, while Howard watched and thought about reaching to quiet them.  But Vince quickly disguised this, moving his fingers in time to the music.  

Fossil often turned to look at them, rolling his eyes and generally looking disturbed.  When the song ended and the curtains closed, he followed them to the stage door, almost willing himself to run and keep up.

They crept through the door, with Howard holding it and shoving Vince through first.

Vince’s hands drifted over as much as they could reach of Howard, as they ran along the corridor; Howard was leading them to Vane’s dressing room.

Lester was standing in front of it, facing away from them.  Vince settled his hands, clasping them both around Howard’s wrist.  He was afraid of what could happen, if they were separated, especially where the Hitcher was concerned.  Vince shuddered.  Howard acknowledged this, trying to give a reassuring look, before reaching to tap Lester’s shoulder.

“Gotta get in that room, there, Lester,” he waited for Lester to turn, “That’s my dressing room, if y--?”

“You’ll have to teach me that trick, too,” Lester mused, “I thought I just let you in there.”

“You know me; I move like water.  Maritime Moon, they call me.”

“That was awful,” Vince muttered, while Howard told him to shut up.

Regardless, Lester opened the dressing room door, heaving with laughter.  

It was Vane’s body, which stood and crept away from the vanity.  It was, also, Vane’s voice which spoke to them, but in a new and uncomfortable cadence.  The type of thing that happened when Howard and Vince tried to imitate each other for anything longer than a minute.

“Well if it isn’t you… two… slags,” the figure said slowly, entertained by its voice.

Their hands rested over their hips, and through the space, Vince could see the Hitcher’s box waiting on the vanity counter.  To tell Howard this, Vince pressed his thumb into Howard’s wrist.  Together, they stepped forward.

“You get our friend out of there,” Howard nodded toward the box, “and we’ll be on our way.”

“Is that so, squire?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thing is,” the Hitcher tugged down his vessel’s coat sleeves,  “I’ve got another couple acts to play for.  And I’ve got big plans for the finale.”

Howard and Vince shared a momentary glance, carrying all the claims they needed to combine for Howard’s plan to work.  Their brain secretaries babbled to each other on their desk-phones, captivated.

“We can get _you_ on stage, easy,” Vince said, “Why didn’t y’ just ask?”

“We’ve got connections,” Howard continued the thought, “Known the manager for years - Vince can get him to do almost anything - and I work with the music director.  He’s outside, now.”

The Hitcher shrugged then reached abruptly for his box.

“That seems reasonable to me,” he said.  Perhaps it was his unsteady grasp of Vane’s voice, but he did not sound convincing.  Howard could tell, too, but only because Vince had not yet relaxed enough to let go of him.  Unsteadily, they watched as the Hitcher pried open the box, shoved in a key, and then pulled a small and shaking Vane out of it.  He set ‘the charming young lady’ down on the chair, promising ‘she’ would return to normal size soon.  Vane shook their head, but was ultimately relieved to see Vince and Howard watching.

Howard opened the door to call for Lester, but could also hear Bob Fossil, storming through the hall and shouting incoherently.

As Vane grew, the Hitcher morphed into his former self.  Fossil arrived in the doorway and said nothing.  He and the Hitcher stared at each other.

“I’m not workin’ with ‘im,” the Hitcher stretched his voice until it returned to normal.

“He's part of the deal,” Howard said curtly.

The Hitcher stayed quiet, until Lester stumbled toward him, stroking his top hat and then offering a high-five as a compliment for it.

“I don’t do those,” the Hitcher growled, eyes fixed on Vince.  

Vince kept edging closer to Howard, which the Hitcher found amusing and useful.  He was still confused on what to call Vince - maybe Howard’s wife? - but definitely his ticket out of the situation.

The Hitcher slammed the box and took it under his arm.  Four times, Fossil yelled variations of ‘who the _freak_ are you?’ and was ignored completely.

“I think it’s time for a bit of _still life_ , young lady.”

Vince blinked, and did not expect a helpful explanation from anyone else in the room.

“I don’t know that one,” Vince said, “You must’ve made it up.  Or you’re _well_ old.”

The Hitcher snapped his fingers, and Vince’s grip loosened around Howard’s wrist, sliding down his hand before letting go completely.

Howard felt momentarily clever - picking out that the Hitcher meant ‘fainting’ - before realising exactly what happened.  The Hitcher dashed out, toward the stage, with Fossil following him.  Lester did his best to follow the noise.

Vane apologised, before explaining they couldn’t help.

“Vince?” Howard knelt and gently shook his friend’s shoulders, “Come on, now.   _Vince_?”

“Should that be happening?” Vane was slowly regaining their confidence - draining bits of it from Howard - as they pointed to Vince’s eyes.  Creases were forming at the sides, noticeable and thick.  Vince would easily faint again, if he saw them.

“We’ve gotta get him home,” Howard said, “Naboo will know what to do.”


	12. What is Expected versus What is Deserved

Vane knocked at the shop door, with Howard nudging them forward and insisting it would still be unlocked.  He was doing his best to carry Vince, and already knew he had earned a lecture on mistreating that day’s hairstyle.

Naboo looked up from behind the counter, as if he had seen this thousands of times before.

“Right idiots, the pair of you,” he said, at the volume he knew would wake Vince up, had he been napping or hungover.  Apparently Naboo had miscalculated.

He could see Vince’s hair, thinner and greyer than it would ever look on purpose, framing a sickly, wrinkled face.  His skin appeared too small for him, while his clothes seemed too large.  

“Look what’s happening to him,” Howard spoke quickly. “You’ve gotta make it stop, Naboo.  It’s black magic or something, isn’t it?  He’s--!”

“I meant everythin’ I said,” Naboo rolled his eyes, then gestured halfheartedly at the wall by the stairs.  Vince’s original portrait was hanging there again, unchanged.  Beneath it, the Hitcher’s cane rested, its encrusted gems pulsating with light.

Vane and Howard were equally confused.

“I told him _exactly_ what to do,” Naboo continued, poking at Vince’s arm, “go in, get the thing, stab it with the walking stick.  Told him _all_ of it.  But I told ‘im to stay away from you, as well, and look where that’s got us.”

Howard had never been any good at deciphering Naboo’s face, but thought his gaze was fond, if not outwardly apologetic.

“He’s, er, lucky he’s pretty?” Howard offered.  Naboo did not let himself gag, because Bollo would hear and demand payment for an earlier bet on the subject.

“Put him down,” Naboo insisted, “And shred that thing, would you?  I can’t do it all.”

“Right,” Howard said quietly.  He set Vince down on the counter, retrieved the Hitcher’s cane, and dragged it as directed through the painting.

He had built the scenario more grandly in his head, and thought the real actions would need embellishment before being addressed in his novel.  Of course, he couldn’t see the Hitcher’s reaction, hunching down over the piano and wailing in pain.  Bob Fossil had to drag him offstage, and neither was happy about it.

Howard could hear Vince, making small mumbling noises, with Vane translating each one.  He threw down the cane and met Vince, helping him to sit up on the edge of the counter.

At this point, Naboo offered to set up the strongest of his pipes and invited Vane to join him before things got ‘too sappy.’  They declined.  

“All right, Vane?” Vince said first.  Vane nodded at him, but encouraged him to focus on Howard instead.  They recognised the importance of this relationship, this moment, and refused to ruin it.

But this was impossible; Vince turned his head.

“Howard!” his enthusiasm infected Howard to the point of smiling.

Howard stepped into the gap between Vince’s legs, dangling over the side of the counter.

Vince’s phone began buzzing within the pocket of his purse, and Vane recalled their mass of text messages.  They stepped toward the door, and promised to call after Howard and Vince had time to catch up.  Naboo nodded, and expressed his own wish to run off.  

Vince could see his purse, which had fallen in front of the red salon chair, and did his best to lunge forward.  Howard caught his arm and steadied him.

“Wait a minute,” he said quietly, “I have to say something first.”

Vince nodded while Howard fell nervously into his role.  The script was his novel, his face was one from his ‘Poet’s Last Words’ series, his audience was focused and smiling sweetly.  Howard cleared his throat.

“It is quite true I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man should ever give to a friend.” Howard said.  As usual, he found one line was not enough, “From the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me… I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly.  I was jealous of everyone you spoke to.  I wanted to have you all to myself.  I was only happy when I was with you.”

Naboo did gag, now, and promptly moved upstairs without a word.

“Is that something from your novel?” Vince was batting his eyelashes in a way that suggested to Howard he had read that page already.  But not from paper; this was something he could read - daily and directly - from Howard’s movements and words and gazes.  He pursed his lips.

Howard furrowed his brow.

“I’m gonna come at you now, you know that.”

“Go on,” Vince curled his legs around Howard’s waist, pulling him into the kiss.

* * *

Vane felt safe, if not uneasy, as they walked home.  They felt as though they occupied an asteroid, stranded between Howard and Vince’s established orbits.  Not out of place, but in too many at once.

As they trudged up the stairs to their bedroom, their phone beeped several times.  New texts.

All from Vince.

While part of them wanted to read them immediately, the majority of Vane’s brain wanted to build them up and make them into something of a narrative, with prose so unique it had to be read at least twice for comprehension.  Vane made themself a cup of tea before settling beneath the blankets on their bed and slipping their mobile from their pocket.

H told me all about u... bein his double

go into that salon i told u about - ask for Trisha

shes my double. well cool.

if u miss me go see her

but i’ll see u again

i LOVED spending time w/ u

thx for everything - i mean it

xxxxxxxxxxx vince

They did read the texts twice, and would’ve felt stupid for smiling if they weren’t all alone in their bedroom.  They planned to meet Trisha as soon as possible.

* * *

Howard called the conversation ridiculous, but fitting, as Vince relayed it to him.  He said it would be at least a few hours before Vane worked out a reply, at which Vince shrugged and suggested they go upstairs.

“You are moving back in, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” Howard said, adding that he would go back for the rest of his stuff tomorrow.  Or whenever Vince was done with compulsively reaching out to pat him, making sure he was still there.

Naboo was lounging on the couch upstairs, feet on the table, trading a pipe back and forth with Bollo.  He barely looked up, as the others appeared at the top of the staircase.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered. Howard and Vince glanced at each other silently, so he continued, “For figuring the whole thing out _ages_ ago?  Bringing back the painting _and_ cane you forgot?  Rescuing you mortals for the millionth time?”

“Cheers,” said Vince.

Bollo considered this acceptable, and nodded.  Naboo set the pipe down out of the ape’s reach.

“I reckon once a month’ll be plenty,” Naboo instructed, “For rent, and for more paintings.”

“What’d you mean?” Vince asked.

“Howard can stay… _someone_ ’s gotta keep my trophy case clean.” He caught Howard’s confused expression, “The shop’s my trophy case; you’re in it.  And if you keep painting him, Vince, that’ll _easily_ contain his shoddy black magic.”

“ _What_?” breathed Howard.

“You didn’t sell your soul to the Spirit of Shakespeare or something, did you?”

Howard shook his head.

“You’re _so_ unlucky,” Vince offered with a giggle.  Howard wanted to agree, but couldn’t find their current situation anywhere in his personal definition of ‘unlucky.’  Vince had lazily laced their fingers, and was leading him back to their room.

* * *

That evening, Vince stayed for several hours in front of his vanity mirror, tracing his fingers over his face while Howard watched him.

“I _am_ gonna get older,” he said, at last.  

“Doesn’t have to mean hideous,” Howard pointed out.

On the counter, between tubes of cream and palettes of eyeshadow, was a tub of fine, glistening powder.  At his brain secretary’s suggestion, Vince set this and a brush in Howard’s hands.

“Do we, er,” Howard began, “need the beds pushed together?”

“Yeah.”

They did so, and sat across from one another on the fault-line of their mattresses.  

“Hold still,” they said to each other.  Howard cupped Vince’s chin in one hand, and used the other to dab powder over Vince’s cheek.  


	13. The Resolution

It took barely a day for Howard to rearrange his possessions, and rediscover his place in the household routine.  Late-open nights were spent alongside Vince, both of them leaning back against the counter, arms folded and voices soft.  Usually, Vince would strut over to the red chair, slide into it, and promise not to fall asleep before invariably doing so.  This always caused Howard to flip the sign, no matter what time they’d made it to, and carry Vince up to their room.

After one such night, several months into the practice, Vince was awoken by a poorly-folded jacket, thrown against his face.  He could mostly hear “big day today, Sunshine,” which Howard only said because he expected Vince to still be asleep.

Vince was willing to play along, only rolling out of bed after he heard Howard shuffle out and attempt to shut the door quietly.  When he was dressed and ready, he went to meet Howard in the kitchen.

He accepted the plate Howard handed to him, without stopping for a ‘thank you’ kiss; Howard kept count of these, and insisted they didn’t mean anything if Vince tried them too often.  But they did keep Naboo away, Vince liked to point out.

They moved to sit at the table together.  As Vince set down his plate, his phone vibrated.  He read from the screen while Howard rearranged the little bowls of fruit and bottles of syrup on the table.

“They’re gonna stop by today,” Vince explained, “Monthly Double Date.”

Howard nodded appreciatively at Vince’s use of the term he’d created for such occasions.  He thought it was clever at the time, and Vince’s soft, sleepy voice confirmed this sufficiently.

“Save some of these, then,” Howard mused, separating his pancakes onto two plates.  It was the only food he could think of that they all liked, and was all he made when Vince was available to have breakfast with him.  They were equally content, with Vince shovelling on soft cheeses and candied fruits and ten types of syrup while Howard ate his plain.  After practice, he learned that Joycey and Trisha both fell somewhere in between.

Vince gave him a quizzical look.

“Why don’t we just go for dinner afterwards?  Trisha’s a Woman About Town, she can get reservations anywhere.”

“Right,” Howard agreed.

“Joycey’d be alright with that too, yeah?”

“Oh, back to Joycey again?” Howard said, after nodding.

“Yeah,” Vince said, “no gigs on.  I changed it in my phone, as well.”

He turned the screen toward Howard, even though it had dimmed and the text was no longer readable.

“Has it still got the eight hearts after it?”

Vince looked at his phone and tapped the screen fondly.

“You _would_ count them.”

Howard shrugged.  Vince took a bite of his breakfast and continued.

“Yours’s still got twelve.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” Howard only decided this was true after he heard himself say it.

Vince raised his brows and leaned in.  He offered Howard his overstuffed fork of pancakes, as a way of changing the subject.  Howard looked at it and shook his head.

“What’s up?” Vince asked, slowly, “You nervous about something?”

“Yeah,” Howard said, “you’re pickin’ up on that.”

“What is it?”

Howard shifted back in his chair, still playing with dishes and spoons but ignoring his food.

“I’m perfectly happy to pose for you,” Howard began, “but I’m not sure about _this_.  About today.”

Vince caught Howard’s hand, resting over a stack of paper napkins which he would otherwise start shredding.

“Hardest part’s over,” Vince said, squeezing Howard’s hand, “this’ll be fun.  Like a big party, and then a nice meal afterwards.  Genius.”

* * *

Howard eventually squeezed Vince’s hand back - about two hours later - gripping it for support as they trudged toward the gallery.

“No one’ll recognise you,” Vince said, and Howard wished for once this would prove true.

He was more afraid of the criticism which would potentially follow recognition.  Vince had spent the past few months illustrating Howard’s novel, after finishing the whole thing - Howard read a few chapters to him each day.  The altered names hadn’t fooled him for a second.  Howard had shrugged, embarrassed he’d even tried changing them, but Vince was already happily copying calligraphy of his favourite lines.  Later, Howard posed to match each one, and sat in their sunny studio while Vince painted him.  

In the pictures, figures of Howard and Vince spent equal time playing Dashing Hero and Distressed Victim.  Howard was shown in Vince’s overly shiny but altogether useless interpretation of armour, or in a flowing, cream-coloured scarf.  Vince’s figures, meanwhile, switched between glittery chainmaille and an iridescent blue ballgown.  Howard’s brain secretary sighed dreamily at the image.

The collection of illustrations was enough to keep Howard’s brain from dabbling in its hopelessly romantic hobby of magical duplication, which it always defaulted to when Howard was feeling unappreciated.  Over the years, this had become responsible for numerous incarnations of Vince and Howard, which always shared small degrees of their relationship - even deeply nuanced habits of theirs - but never eclipsed the entire thing.  He did not properly understand _why_ , but assumed he didn’t know enough about the magic to control it.  Every time he said this, though, Vince would elbow him and say ‘we’re meant to be different like that, you ‘n’ me.’  

This time, Howard was pulled from his thoughts by Joycey’s voice, happy but hesitant, and then Trisha’s, which was more convincingly excited.  Their relationship, Howard could guess, was about as official and seemingly simple as the one he shared with Vince.  He didn’t deny any sort of magic backing, anymore; it was too lucky.

They arrived and grouped neatly together.  Trisha was gently leading Joycey along, then raising up their hand to show off their coordinated nails.  Joycey blushed and exchanged an embarrassed, knowing look with Howard.  Quietly, the four of them gave variations of ‘hello.’  

Vince took turns tugging at everyone’s sleeves, smiling and speaking quickly.  

“I should do your portraits next,” he said, glancing between Trisha and Joycey.

Howard wanted to elbow him, for behaving too much like loose tea leaves.  His words were too strong, and never restrained by thoughts or planning.  Howard was learning to find this endearing, slowly, and only because Trisha and Joycey were nodding and not looking upset.  Vince turned and smiled at him, both requesting and confirming permission at the same time.

“How’s this weekend?” Vince asked the group.  Howard fell backward into his thoughts to dig for a partially composed itinerary, but was quickly distracted.

He could see Vince throwing the doors open, showing off the highlights of the shop.  It was easy enough to picture Trisha touring the upstairs and offering to make new drapes for every window.  Joycey would drag Howard’s keyboard collection from storage and passionately try to cull songs from his poetry notebooks. Vince would stay up late every night, either sewing and letting Trisha straighten his hair, or just talking with Joycey.  This would mean waking up late, then, tangled beneath their sun-drenched duvet, not noticing the names Howard called him.

He felt Vince stroking his wrist.  

“What’d’ya say, Howard?”

“That’d be nice,” he said, “having company for a bit.”

**Author's Note:**

> With lots of love and a virtual fruit basket of thanks to thegroovyarchives.tumblr.com for wonderful editing and beautiful ideas.


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